Twelve

That the sum sanity might add to naught
And words fall crippled from the slaving lips,
Girls take to broomsticks when the thief of night
Has stolen the starved babies from their laps,
I would enforce the black apparelled cries,
Speak like a hungry parson of the manna,
Add one more nail of praise on to the cross,
And talk of light to a mad miner.
I would be woven a religious shape;
As fleeced as they bow lowly with the sheep,
My house would fall like bread about my homage;
And I would choke the heavens with my hymn
That men might see the devil in the crumb
And the death in a starving image.